


Grip

by wolfestarz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Bottom Harry, Drarry, Enemies to Lovers, HP: EWE, Light BDSM, M/M, Nightmares, POV Second Person, Post-War, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, references to blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 06:18:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12053091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfestarz/pseuds/wolfestarz
Summary: You're inside him, and it feels like a victory. You're inside him, but you know the truth. He isn't defeated. He's stronger than ever.





	Grip

Tonight, he's gritting his teeth, says he wants it hard, but you knew that already. You saw him at the desk across from yours, hunched over, his face all screwed up with grief. The hostage had died.

The ministry's cooling charms were malfunctioning that day. His shirt sticking to his back from sweat, he looked up at you, like he wanted to say something, but he didn't.

He didn't need to.

Someone said he left the crime scene, reducto-ed everything in his path.

Sympathy isn't what he needs, and you're glad. This push and pull, this back and forth. No doubt he will say something scathing to set you off, make demands and shout, but he'll be the one bending over in the end, the sounds he makes thrilling you like nothing else.

Fingertips tracing his skin like lines of latitude and longitude, fingertips tracing the walls for weak spots, fingertips on their endless journeys, dragging against his jaw, skimming his thigh, fingertips and their destinations.

He spoke for you at the trials. He shook your hand on your first day at the ministry and said all was forgiven, but you knew better. You do not believe in _no hard feelings_ anymore. You have too many scars for that, hear too many words that turn into ash as soon as they are spoken.

You want to hurt him, and he'll let you. You can see it flashing in his eyes, hear it when he raises his voice. He's not as fucked up as you, but he's close, closer than anyone else.

This isn't romantic, all teeth, the bruises blooming like the sickest flower, his hands in your hair and vice versa.

It's something you break your arms to reach.

Clenching the world tightly in your fist, it might be enough to keep him in the same place, the answers sliding around in the polished dark until your knees are bruised from searching the ground. It's almost always like this, seething, shrill and livid. He makes you so angry, so dizzy,

the words crackling in the pan, and something simmering underneath.

You're inside him, and it feels like a victory. You're inside him, but you know the truth. He isn't defeated. He's stronger than ever. It goes like this: fear is not the enemy of love. It's a parasitic relationship, and you fear him so, you do, even when you're holding his wrists above his head. You can see the strength in his muscles pulled taught, sense the power pulsing underneath his skin, humming in the air, fogging up the glass.

He could ruin you with a thought, with one well-placed word, but he doesn't.

If he says this isn't a game, he's winning.

Sharp edge, the inside of the animal. _That's no animal_ , but he feels like one, feels warm, until it isn't, until he's gone home and the empty dark smothers you in a blanket of cold, until you search your body for one, single part of you he hasn't touched.

He's let you touch every part of him too, but that somehow makes it worse.

He's never going to let you leave unscathed. Try walking away without limping, and see how far you get. He made something inside you sing. He made something warm stir in your chest, and now it's clawing its way out.

You tried with someone else, a slag from some dodgy club _he_ took you to once. He was an attractive bloke, willing, and had hair dark and messy enough to make him desirable, but he was disappointing, his edges not sharp enough to cut yourself on.

You need him. You know this. Every time he speaks, something burns in your chest. You go to these stupid muggle places he loves just to chase this feeling. The shit diner with its grimy floors, you'll fight for most of the night, but he'll let you fuck him in the stall later on, so it's worth it.

You can't help but wonder. Can you do it without all of the blood? Can you keep him here without holding him down? Sometimes he looks at you a certain way. It makes you think you could, but the wolf is at your door, at your throat. It's too dangerous to even contemplate, but

these nights, the stares last so much longer, everything in h o u r s.

The nights in his bed are the worst, without sex as an excuse for watching him. He looks so vulnerable when he sleeps, oddly innocent, even with the bruises littering his neck. When he has nightmares, you don't know what else to do but wake him and accept the grateful look he gives you. The third time it happens, you tell him you have nightmares too, about nagini, about the mark searing and squirming underneath your skin.

"I died, you know."

He says it like a joke, like it's nothing, but his smile is tight. You don't ask questions, but that night, you bite and suck on every one of his pulse points until there's no doubt in your mind he's here.

It's not until another night when you know for sure, that you're never giving this up, another remembrance gala he had to speak at. You usually tie him up after those, fuck him until his eyes are glazed over, and he stops thinking.

"Sometimes I feel like I never really came back, like I'm not alive."

You're laying side by side on the bed. You haven't kissed yet, and you're not sure why. Maybe the gala affected you more than usual. Maybe it's a moment of weakness.

"Sometimes I feel that way too."

He's back at you soon, takes your lip between his teeth until it draws blood. You've seen this fierceness before, but it still leaves you breathless.

"See, that's blood, your blood. You're here. You're alive."

You bite him back, harder, the way he likes, his blood mixing with yours while you kiss, your thumb pushing against his wrist where his pulse runs quick and loud.

He's not going to let you leave unscathed. He's not going to let you leave at all. His grip is too tight, the sounds he makes too loud in your ears.

"We're both alive."


End file.
